


all for freedom and for pleasure

by broblerone



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drabble, Gay Club, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, idk how to tag this sorry god, no cal au, teenage bro strider, the summoner goes by rufio, young gay bro in the late 90s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broblerone/pseuds/broblerone
Summary: Anonymous asked: Imagine: Bro Strider, like nineteen years old and no-Cal AU, armed with a fake ID nervously entering a gay club for the first time.





	all for freedom and for pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: Imagine: Bro Strider, like nineteen years old and no-Cal AU, armed with a fake ID nervously entering a gay club for the first time.

A Gina G song fades into _Tainted Love_ as you walk in, and your first thought is how much bigger this place looks on the inside. It’s still a little cramped, push-up bras pressed against button-downs pressed against shirtless bodies and bodies, but there’s still more breathable air in here than there is outside. Maybe the mingling of colognes and perfumes in the air is a drawn-out chemical reaction, producing albuterol.

Or maybe it’s the sudden shift in nervous energy.

Your name (while you’re here, anyway) is Bro Strider, and the year is 1999. It’s barely spring, but Texas has never much cared for waiting until winter ends to turn the midday sidewalks into griddles. The sun is down, the air is a little less suffocating in its heat, and this place doesn’t have air-conditioning. You could have guessed that from its entrance alone. A little green door caked in layers of sun-bleached posters, tucked away down in the far corner of an alley. It was the kind of door that could only be found by those who were looking for it, hidden in shadows where nobody worth believing would see it. The general population would warn you about the dangers of a door like this.

The general population also warns you about the dangers of homosexuality. You’ve already jumped the shark.

Your height in Converse and scruffy chin more than make up for the zits on your temples and gangly stature, but you’re still nervous about getting caught. The weight of the leather biker gloves on your hands keeps them from shaking. You’ve never been good on your own around strangers, crowds, people you had no clear through line with. How were you supposed to know how to act if there was no familiar force alongside you to guide you? You curse yourself for being shy and decide to stand in a corner, no drink in your hand. You’re not willing to have your fake ID scrutinized more than once tonight. 

It’s perfectly normal to stand in a corner with your hands in your jean pockets while everyone else’s hands are on someone else’s shoulders, spine, back pockets. You’re in the process of convincing yourself that you’re content to observe when someone you’ve never met approaches you, surely to try and change your mind. You try to pretend like you’ve made a decision that’s sturdy enough to be worth changing.

He’s the only person you can see that’s taller than you, but maybe it’s the mohawk he’s sporting that makes him look that way. He doesn’t look too much older than you (definitely somewhere in his twenties, probably), tan skin, full lips pulled into a calm and inviting smile, kind eyes… His toned muscle makes you remember the reason you belong in these clubs. The song playing behind him dips into a transition the moment he speaks, and you swear he can’t be human.

“First time, huh, doll..?”

The twine keeping you wound up unfurls. The way he holds out his hand disarms every bruise and dirty word that threatened to keep you locked behind your bedroom door, away from here. You nod. He subtly mimics it, and you know he understands. He won’t make you speak up. 

“You can call me Rufio.”

His hand is warm enough to feel through the leather on your palm. He pulls your back away from the flyer-splashed wall, closer to him, closer to the edge of that breathing entity called the dancefloor. The further you stray from the comfort of your corner, the more acutely you’re aware of the way your heart beats for the whole room. You’ve never seen two men with lips locked in person before, but now you could reach out and touch them. They don’t look afraid of the possibility. Their hearts are beating for this whole room, too.

You can’t put your finger on the song that’s playing, but Rufio says it’s his favorite. It’s one you’ve heard a few times before, rolling synth to a shuffle rhythm, and it works the tension out of your muscles. The way you bump against other people just encourages you to sway along more– no urge to pull away and apologize. It’s like nothing you’ve felt before. There’s nothing  _to_ pull away from.

Rufio is a better dancer than you are, but he’s so genuinely content to sway along with you. Your chests are almost touching, his bare behind a black vest. You don’t realize you’re smiling until he brushes an affectionate thumb across your cheek. It’s safer than any touch you’ve felt before it. Here, in this crowded room without air-conditioning, whose heavy green door leads out to an alley straight out of an anti-drug PSA, with a septum-pierced man in leather pants, you’re safer than you’ve ever been.

The general population never warned you about that.


End file.
